Penance
by alcyonejonquil
Summary: There are a number of duties all priests of Mara are required to fulfill. Those might not include helping friends who are hopelessly in love with them, and having to contend with their own incredibly murky feelings to do so. Not usually, anyway. (One-sided Erandur/F!Dovahkiin, background Ancano/Illia.) (Part 6 of "How You Appear")
1. Chapter 1

**This is a sequel to my previous five stories, and, as such, might be difficult to understand without some context. **

**My Imperial Dragonborn, Clelia "Clea" Orsino, and her companion, Illia ("Lilly"), had aided the priest Erandur in getting rid of the Dawnstar citizens' nightmares prior to completing their mission to kill Alduin. Additionally, our two heroines turn out to be practically irresistible in the eyes of more-or-less disturbed villains - Clea, to Miraak, and Illia, to Ancano. The results of those attachments have varied greatly: Miraak was killed at the summit of Apocrypha, while Ancano joined the group as husband and brother-in-law, respectively, the ragtag family of three taking refuge in Raven Rock for the foreseeable future. Enter the shadow of Miraak looming just over the horizon, and we're left with the premise for a new fic.**

* * *

She is sharp; sharper than the edge of her sword, than the light reflecting off the Sea of Ghosts on those clear Tirdas mornings when the world is frozen solid and shimmering so brightly, it hurts his eyes.

(It's the only home he's known, yet he never could get used to seeing so much ice everywhere, endless fields of white. The cold seeps inside the people of this land, moulds them, leaves them angry, snapping at each other like wolves. Has it found its way into his soul, too—is that why he's like this?...)

Oh, that's just grand. Get a hold of yourself, old mer. Folk don't come to you for that, and you'll need every measure of sanity to handle today. Rustleif is supposed to be stopping by, and Lady Mara knows he's more than willing to go on and on about his marital problems until midday at least.

First, though, there is a missive to read. It's been sitting on the table since last night, taunting him. "Later," he's been saying to himself, "after I've finished the rites, and made a fresh pot of tea, and tidied up the main hall. Just a little bit later."

What would his brothers say? A former agent of the Dreamweaver, involved in the most subtle and treacherous of tortures, scared out of his mind by the words of a woman.

_A_ _friend_, he corrects himself. Yes, Clea's called him that from the beginning, she has; believed him to be wholly repentant of his past sins. She lent her hand to his mission with few questions asked. Quick to confide in him. Too quick. Her emerald gaze much too eager to latch on to his and cling to it for dear life.

They'd stayed awake 'till dawn, telling stories of happier times, trying to get a genuine smile out of poor, skittish Illia, who was hugging her knees to her chest like a child (they did, they laughed and laughed, and it would have been impossible to say which one of them had needed it more desperately than the other two). All too soon, however, he was standing on his front steps, bestowing the Divines' blessings upon their journey. It was then he saw the mirthful sort of awe in the Dragonborn's eyes when she looked at him, and he _knew_.

He's tried to fool himself, of course. As if that's worked for him before.

Then, the letters started arriving. The unopened one he now clutches in his hand is the eighth.

He always replies just a bit later than he should, keeps the tone cordial yet restrained, and, Kynareth preserve her, so does she, in her relentless entreaties.

Only somewhat shaking, he rips the seal open.

* * *

"My Friend,

The situation grows dire. I hope you will forgive me for being quite so abrupt, but the presence I've mentioned in my last message (which went unanswered) will not relent, drawing nearer instead. I am frightened for our safety, and my new brother-in-law has undoubtedly taken notice. I have reason to think he has doubled the wards surrounding our house, and is increasingly wary of me, to the point of finding any number of excuses for me and Lilly to not be in the same room together. This morning, he's—rather firmly—expressed his belief that I ought to pay a visit to some of my relatives. Surely they haven't heard from me in a while, he said, and the fresh Cyrodiil air might bring some welcome colour to my complexion.

I trust I needn't tell you more. If it weren't so distasteful of me, I would fill the rest of this page with a hundred different pleas, while wishing then, at least, I would find some understanding in _you_, one of the two people my entire world revolves around. That you would come to my aid, as I have come to yours.

I should apologise for the excessive pathos—I haven't found merely an hour of restful, uninterrupted sleep in more than a week. That is, however, irrelevant.

_Anything but being parted from her._ You know this.

That ounce of care you've ever felt for us may ultimately guide you towards a resolution. I, for one, pray that it will.

C."

* * *

Judging by its numerous creases, Erandur must have, at some point during the following week, crunched the parchment tightly in his fists. Said parchment now rests on the bottom of his satchel, slowly taking in stale seawater atop a plank of the Northern Maiden that has been placed just slightly askew.

* * *

**This will be my first multi-chapter fic! It's not finished as of yet, but I will do my best to upload a new part as soon as possible. Hip hip hooray for longer stories!**

**(This first chapter is fairly short, in keeping with my usual MO, but the ones to come should prove more substantial.)**


	2. Chapter 2

_It should, for all intents and purposes, feel like coming home. _

He is only hit by that exact thought when the Solstheim shore comes well within view of the boat. Having spent most of his voyage poring over the thick tomes he's brought with him, the first time he glances up, he's floored at how close they are to their destination.

A land belonging to his people. As close to Morrowind as he's gotten since he was born. Yet, strangely, it does not feel that extraordinary to him. The dread of having to face the one who's placed all her confidence in him, and not being sure he had any definite answer to her predicament, keeps his mind occupied enough. A healer he may be, and quite experienced in matters of dreams and spirits, but he's not infallible—far from it. And if he's deeply perturbed by the thought of facing her at all, that doesn't exactly make things easier, does it?

He steps out onto the pier, allows himself but a moment to take in the alien surroundings, then begins to ask around after two Imperial sisters who'd recently taken residence in town. It takes him a while, but he eventually finds himself on their doorstep, and does not forget to whisper a short prayer to Her Benevolence before knocking.

It is she who answers, because why wouldn't it be, and it's fascinating to witness how fast her expression changes in the span of a few seconds. At first, she's sharper than he's ever seen her, glaring daggers at him from under her eyelashes. Then, her eyes get exceedingly wide (even when they fill with relief and merriment, he can't not notice how bloodshot they are) and she twitches, as if she wants to launch herself at him, but changes her mind before she attempts it properly. Her gaze narrows, a tiny smile blooming on her lips.

"Ah," she intones, "made sure to take your time, haven't you?"

He bristles.

"I left as soon as I got your last letter! It's why I didn't write to tell you I was—"

"Do we get the pleasure to see who is at the door, Clelia, dear?"

An unknown voice, decidedly male. No. Not even Lady Mara would be so all-encompassing in her mercy. Could it truly be that she's found...?

There is a flash of golden skin and long, pale hair behind her before she pulls him inside by his forearm and the door is slammed shut.

There is a dangerous-looking Altmer in the entrance hall, and he finds he doesn't appreciate that one bit.

"Of course you do," says Clelia. "This is Erandur, the friend from Dawnstar I've told you about. Everything is fine, he's not here to murder you, Ancano."

"It's obviously not me I'm worried about," the mer mumbles, glaring at him. "The priest, then. Not in a very priestly mood at the moment, I gather."

Erandur realises, too late, that his right hand has automatically reached for his weapon, and relaxes his stance.

"If it's Milore looking for her manual, I have it right here!" echoes a voice from downstairs.

The person coming up from the basement can solely be Illia. But she's so unlike what he remembers her to be, he can't help but do a double take. That ragged girl who's come to his tower all those months ago is no more. In her place stands a woman, all gentle eyes and understated grace; she gapes at him for a heartbeat, her gaze darts to her sister, then back to him, and she _beams_.

"Well, look who's here! We didn't know you were planning to come. Or did we?"

"I wasn't sure when I would be able to arrive, so I didn't write. I trust it's not a bad time."

"No, no, far from it. We've only just finished redecorating." She takes the Altmer's arm, and he shifts to accommodate her leaning against his side almost by pure instinct. "Ancano is my...husband. When I last spoke to you, the two of us hadn't yet met, I think."

"We stopped in Dawnstar on our way to Winterhold," Clelia whispers from his right.

So stunned has he been by the unusual couple in front of him, he's almost forgotten about _her_.

He turns his head and finds out she's been staring at him this whole time, trying to surreptitiously take in as much of his features as possible, as if she can scarcely believe he's truly only a few inches away once again.

He feels like running outside and throwing himself headfirst into the sea.

Then she notices his gaze, and remembers herself:

"Let's not just sit here gawking at each other, then. Give me the satchel, Erandur, I'll take it to your room, and I'll fix you something to eat."

After a short back and forth ("No, out of the question, you're the guest, you'll sleep in the guest room," "But it's too much trouble, Clea, really, I don't wish to take your bed from you!" "Nonsense, we just had this huge divan put here in the hall, look, it's very comfortable! I'll be absolutely fine.") they find themselves around the hearth, conversing animatedly over a cup of sujamma.

"I'm deeply sorry about my reaction earlier, by the way," he says to Ancano. "When your sister-in-law mentioned a _tall, fair-haired_ _man_, you were, sadly, not the figure I'd pictured in my head."

"That is what she wrote, is it? Well, one can accuse the Dragonborn of many things, but a lack of slyness is certainly not one of them."

"And don't you forget it, _brother_," she threatens him mockingly from where she's leaning against the wall, bravely trying to not fall asleep right then and there.

"One might say she has such a talent for it, it's a great pity she's not been trained as an assassin," he continues unperturbed.

"Or a bard," says Illia with a giggle.

"Have you never heard me sing, dear?"

"I, for one, definitely have not. Sing? Now that would be quite a thing to see you do," Erandur (stupidly, so stupidly) feels the need to interject.

Clelia pauses, head turned slightly towards him, and he doesn't think the red on her cheeks is merely a reflection of the roaring fire in front of her.

"Hm," she replies, at last, "let's just say you should thank Mara for not having had the pleasure, and leave it at that, shall we?"

When it's finally time to retire for the night, he strains to get up from the floor, back aching from having sat in one place for too long, but Illia's snow-white hand is on his shoulder, and she reveals she'd first like to speak to him. Alone.

"It won't take long, I know you're very tired, but it genuinely can't wait."

He feels, more than sees, Ancano narrowing his focus on the two of them as she leads him to the small bedroom. Akatosh, if the phrase "to watch someone like a hawk" could ever take physical form, the way this Altmer looks at his wife would be precisely it.

After taking a great amount of care to close the door, she perches on the edge of the bed, peering straight into his eyes.

"I'm honestly not surprised she's asked you to come," she says precipitously, as if resuming a conversation they've already started. "She's not doing well, Erandur, something's eating at her, though she denies it every time I bring it up. Is afraid of worrying me, but she makes it a hundred times worse by hiding."

Her mouth curves into something resembling a derisive smirk.

"What she doesn't realise is that I'm more attuned to magic than most people. I've sensed the outside influence hanging upon this house, without her having to tell me a single word about it. So has my husband. I don't know what she's told you. All I want is that you come to us if there's even the tiniest way we might be able to help. I may not be well-versed in many things other than Destruction, but Ancano is. And he'll do anything I ask him to, without question."

He blinks at her, in utter disbelief at her last sentence.

"Gods, Lilly, how can you say that so matter-of-factly? What's gotten into you?"

"It's tr—"

"I'm sure it's _true_, that doesn't make it...we'll need to talk about this sometime, you and I."

He sees the lines of her face tighten almost imperceptibly, and when she speaks, it's with an inflexion he's never imagined could come from her lips:

"Is that all you've gathered from everything I said? Do you understand what I'm asking you? She may well be in danger. I'm not ready to lose her. And I'm not convinced you are, either."

He goes to take a walk after that. He needs a clear head for what's to come.


	3. Chapter 3

"Were you Thalmor, before?" he decides to inquire the following morning, while he sits at the table on the ground floor and watches Illia tend to her little garden of Alchemy ingredients outside.

Be assertive, get the uncomfortable subjects out of the way as early as possible; the usual fare. It works on everyone, if you're careful enough and have practised it hundreds of times, as he has.

Ancano scoffs, picking absentmindedly through a sack of Ash Yams, putting the most appetising ones away in the huge backpack at his side.

"Because all Altmer are Thalmor?" he retorts.

No, because you've been forced to hide here, on this godsforsaken rock, where Clea's withering like a flower, plagued by some Daedric menace, and you know she would rather die than leave her sister behind, yet you could not care less.

Since that would most certainly not help his cause, he replies:

"I know for a fact it isn't so. Just trying to gauge why two uncommonly powerful mages like you and Illia would not make use of their talents somewhere other than on the very outskirts of civilisation. There is never a shortage of wrong things to straighten out, especially with the war going on. And there are few things more precious to the forces of Good in this world than a competent, versatile wizard. As I'm reasonably well aware of what sort of company the Dragonborn prefers to keep, I must infer you can be nothing but a force of Good."

"_Prefers to keep_. I was allowed to get close to Lilly and live to see the next day, I believe is what you mean. Yes. I am, indeed, a Thalmor defector. However, we are not the only ones choosing to remain on the sidelines. I don't suppose you know who Master Neloth is?"

"The Telvanni lord? I've heard his name being mentioned a few times in the past. Why?"

"Clelia's met him during one of her numerous expeditions. According to her, he resides just on the other side of the island. And has not manifested the desire to involve himself in any sort of conflict or holy quest in, well, centuries."

"I sincerely hope you're not comparing yourself to that...relic!" he exclaims. "You have a young wife, staying holed up in here with her is neither feasible nor healthy. Mara knows she's had enough of that to last her a lifetime."

He figures he's touched a nerve when he sees Ancano's golden eyes flash for a fraction of a second. _There we go._

"And consciously putting her in harm's way would be a splendid idea, according to you?" He carries on, ignoring Erandur's attempt to push the matter further. "Thank you kindly for your insight, but a change of scenery has, believe it or not, crossed my mind already, which is why the two of us shall be visiting the Skaal—discreetly—for a few days. Now, wherever did that woman put the empty waterskins?"

"The middle of the bottom shelf in the kitchen cabinet, underneath the other camping supplies," comes said woman's voice from somewhere below them.

"Clelia, I swear your sense of hearing didn't use to be that ridiculous. I wonder what other secret abilities all this peace and quiet will eventually draw forth from your mind. Oh, it will not take long for you to tell apart the people passing on the main road from your room, and with the door closed, just you wait."

"Careful, Ancano," she quips. "You may be starting to develop a sense of humour. Not a particularly good one, but still. I hear it's incurable, see!"

Muttering something about living in a household with a _child_, he struggles (and fails miserably) to cram Illia's new Treatise on Alteration into the already overflowing bag.

"Divines, give me that, or you'll be here 'till noon!" Clea snaps at him, coming upstairs and seeing him stare hopelessly at all the travelling essentials he has yet to pack.

"Eager to be rid of us, aren't you?" Ancano says, and gives him a knowing look from the corner of his eye.

He pretends not to spot the shadow passing over her brow, or the white-knuckled grip of her fingers on the worn leather straps.

When the pair of them blessedly leave—one imposing figure, with an arm wrapped protectively around the other's dainty shoulders—Erandur does not feel at all prepared for what he's about to do. Yet he has to, so he steels his heart and turns to face his friend.

Who slowly makes her way to the nearest chair and sinks into it, hands supporting her forehead as if she's trying not to collapse in on herself.

He is only dimly aware of kneeling in front of her, of the way her short, heaving breaths hit his collarbone when she leans into his embrace.

They sit like that for minutes, decades, until her dry sobs finally subside enough for him to gently pry her from the crook of his neck and push the unruly strands of brown hair away from her eyes.

"All right," he says. "Tell me."

And tell him she does. Haltingly, at first, but then her confessions become a flood, shattering every barrier in their way.

She tells him how, even with three heroes of legend at her back, she was no bigger than a flea beneath the span of Alduin's jet-black wings, and she is certain, to this day, that her strikes barely tickled him. How not having Illia alongside her then felt like missing half of her body.

How, whenever bandits think it a worthwhile distraction to accost two (seemingly) vulnerable women on the road, she wishes she could turn into a feral beast, just so she could drown them faster in their own disgusting, lecherous taunts.

How she can't help but hate herself for letting the touch of a hand on her shoulder blade stop her from piercing a certain Altmer wizard's chest straight through, that night when he came looking for them. So clean and uncomplicated, and entirely justified—they were being hunted by Miraak's cultists, after all, one can never be too careful. Curses Ancano for ever having laid eyes on her sister, and—she doesn't realise his fingers are getting numb where she clenches them in her fists—and Illia for indulging him as she does.

In between his whispers of _I know, I know_, she tells him all that, and much more; until her breath calms, some of the weight she's been trapped under for so long ceases to exist, and she is left there, looking down at him with something dangerously teetering towards abandon.

He desperately needs to get to the point, keep this from veering off-track, so he asks:

"And the dreams? Miraak?"

At that, she briefly closes her eyes, then her back straightens, she rises to her feet, and starts pacing, almost unconsciously, around the room.

"Have you found anything? An explanation, a precedent, perhaps?" she asks him back, all soldier and hero of Tamriel once again.

It destroys him, then, how young she looks, in her soft grey tunic and trousers, and how impossibly old.

"You needn't fear a thing," he wants to say to her. "No harm will come to you when you're with me. I'll guard you with my life, you darling, unfortunate girl."

But what comes out instead is:

"We'll most likely have to seek out the place you saw him last. Or, at least, somewhere he has a strong connection to. Work out how to sever whatever link he has created between him and this plane—" _and you_, he muses.

"He waits for me to come to him. That's what it feels like. I suspect one battle was not enough. He wants to avenge his wounded ancient warrior pride," she utters ruefully. "It doesn't make sense, though. I wasn't the one who killed him – it was Mora. Why the sudden interest? Does he think I can help him come back from wherever in Oblivion he ended up?"

"I suppose we'll see, won't we?"

Deep in thought, she turns her back to him, heading towards the stairs, and his brain doesn't quite catch up to his mouth, since he calls her name before he can stop himself.

She sighs, and the smile she offers him is almost painful in its feebleness.

"I'm glad you've come. More than I could ever say. And I'm sure we'll sort it all out, don't worry."

Of course she'd go back to reassuring _him_ in a heartbeat. Of course.


	4. Chapter 4

She's the most meticulous person he's ever met, is Clelia. The old manor's virtually spotless—something that's struck him from the beginning. Every minute object is put where it's both easily accessible and pleasing to the eye. It's nice to not have to rummage through dozens of drawers for the pincushion, or to have all you may need at your disposal upon entering your room after a tiring day.

He's got a sneaking suspicion it's not merely a matter of convenience, in her case; it runs much deeper than that (everything always "runs deeper than that" with anyone, after all—one of the first lessons a priest and healer is required to understand). Very few things are secure and predictable for the Dragonborn when, first their country, then the whole damned _world_, are vying for their aid—to find even a semblance of equilibrium, she has to have order in her immediate vicinity, at least.

There is nothing symmetrical about her, inside or out, from her slightly crooked nose to the sharp edges in her heart—yet she strives to achieve symmetry with all her might, and it would be pitiful if it weren't so incredibly laudable.

That, or he's starting to lose it, which may be just as likely, considering.

"When should we go? If we leave soon, we'll be able to catch up with them, they can't have gotten far," he asks while she runs her fingers along the bindings of her scroll collection, perfectly aligned inside one of the display cases.

"Let them go. I'm not sure I can stand being near that bastard right now." She sends a little smirk his way. "Much too sleep-deprived."

"Four heads are better than two," he tries to counter, remembering Illia's frightful expression—_We'll only be gone for a few days_—the way her arms had clung to her sister's neck like vines—

"True, but I do think we can manage without them—argh, damn it all," she exclaims, taking in his panicked expression, "don't tell me that's what she's...She has, hasn't she? That girl, I swear..."

"You know very well you would have done the same."

"Obviously."

She pauses, then adds:

"A lot, lot worse."

She stands there, lightly biting one of her fingernails in thought, then heaves a deep sigh.

"Fine. We leave tomorrow at dawn. Just to assess what we might be dealing with, and if it ends up looking a bit too problematic, we go to the village and fetch them. That's reasonable."

"It is. Thank you, my odds were beginning to seem somewhat shaky, there. I shudder to think how Lilly would've reacted had we completely left her out of this."

The short laugh that escapes her at his sombre musings should not make his heart give that strong a lurch. Yet, for that single moment, she looks like herself again, and it _hurts_.

"Fearsome little thing, isn't she? All right, then, let us see...I'll...I'll go to the store to inquire about the new blade oils I've ordered. You may wish to take a look at those spell books in the meantime, there must be something that can help us—you're the only magic expert left in this house, so, good luck."

"Well, if you put it like that," he can't resist teasing her. "Though, Clea...?"

"Yes?" she says, rubbing her temples.

"Are you sure you don't want to go ahead with this as soon as possible? I mean, can you..."

"I've been this way for _weeks_, Erandur, one more day won't kill me, I promise," she murmurs fondly. "I have some of Milore's draught left for tonight, and it'll do."

It probably won't, but he can't really argue with her on that front. Nevertheless, come sundown, he feels the need to ask her whether there's anything he can do to help; she turns even paler and hesitates only for a second before denying vehemently.

"It's been better already, now that you're here," she whispers, dusting off an intricately carved cuirass with practised ease, and how can the tone in which she says it not be worth every single moment of doubt, denial, and remorse?

It doesn't help that he thinks he can hear the sound of soft steps coming up and down the stairs for long after she's wished him goodnight, leaning on the door frame of his (_her_) room.

* * *

It turns out calling this place "the outskirts of civilisation" didn't quite capture the essence of it, since they've been walking for Gods know how many hours, without encountering any manner of civilisation to speak of. Attempting to distract himself from the frigid winds and the deeply unsettling noises echoing on the barren plains when he least expects them, he tells her something he's been dying to for months:

"I'm not sure if you're aware, but I've spent a significant amount of time in garrisons around Skyrim and even Cyrodiil, without the level of...literacy among recruits ever striking me as terribly high. Yet here you are, sending me those letters, and I can't help but wonder—where _did_ you learn to write like—well, like _that_?"

"Oh," she says, narrowing her eyes, "you have my father to thank for it."

"Your father, the captain?!"

"That's the man."

"I'd imagined, from the little you've told me, he only sought to turn you into the perfect soldier, and kept you doing military drills twice as long and difficult than those meant for the rest of your peers."

"And what do you think my time was being spent on when the drills were over? Oh, no, I required much more than weapon and endurance training, if I was to someday take over his position, which absolutely everyone expected me to do. He tutored me in history, geography, classic military strategy, and, most importantly, encouraged me to read anything I could get my hands on; though that was much more about me standing out from the others than anything else."

Huffing, she begins to fiddle with the buckles of her gauntlets.

"I was his only child, therefore, his only chance of proving that his family was as far from being a failure as it could possibly get, and proving it to everyone; most of all, to my mother, who'd vanished a short while after having me, and whom my mere presence reminded him of constantly. At least, that's what I believe."

As ever, he lets her speak, unload the burdens she's been hauling with her for so long, she's on the brink of allowing them to become a leaden pedestal.

"You know I'd barely made it up to Praefect, before I ran away and the whole Helgen debacle happened? Father was furious. The good Captain Raffaele Orsino, snubbed out of a centurion position solely by his own reluctance to submit to the general's whims, had a daughter who did not even get close to matching his combat prowess by the age of twenty-four? But one who could recite accounts of famous battles at three in the morning, or draw comparisons between virtually any work of Breton poetry from the early Third Era and contemporary Redguard epics. That, she could most assuredly do."

She stares ahead as if seeing the past unfold beyond the swirls of ash dotting the landscape.

"When Alduin attacked, I saw the opportunity for what it was and slipped away in the commotion. I could not resign myself to the life that had been set for me—yes, a marvel of an excuse, wasn't it? Went straight to the Rift, where I knew I could make myself disappear. Came across a decrepit tower in the woods, and then, all of a sudden, there was something to live and fight for: a friend, who became my family. The sister I'd always dreamed of having."

"Has your father not tried to find you, afterwards? I find it hard to believe."

"No idea. The only piece of information I managed to dig up on my way to Whiterun a few weeks later was that he'd been killed in action; a band of necromancers near Ivarstead, twice his number of men. Some scouts found the piles of ash where their camp had been."

"Near Ivarstead...Stendarr's mercy, he was getting close to where you—"

"All right!" Clea raises her voice, then takes a deep breath and looks at him apologetically. "He likely was. It's no use dwelling on it now, though. We're almost to the mountains, let's carry on for another hour or so, and then we'll find a place to rest."

* * *

"In all honesty," she speaks towards the campfire as the sun sinks below the horizon, "all that reading and writing finds a way to be useful, every once in a while. Do you realise how doomed I'd be if I couldn't keep up with my dear brother-in-law? His _suggestion_ to hurry and leave for Cyrodiil would've otherwise come within...let's see, a few days, perhaps?"

She snorts.

"Luckily, I've managed to shut him up more than a few times since we moved to Raven Rock, in case you were wondering why exactly he was being so nice to me back home."

Lounging on her bedroll, she stares wistfully up at him, and he finds himself pinned into place.

"Also," she says, "how could I be ungrateful when my letters worked? You came. Maybe the captain had been on to something, after all."

He will not ruin this right now. He _refuses_.


	5. Chapter 5

Her fingers reach for him almost immediately once their owner is no longer awake and able to deny them, and wouldn't everything be more manageable already if he stopped cataloguing these things, if each of them weren't a thorn lodging itself into his heart, never to come out? If he just...failed to notice?

If he weren't Erandur, and he were Casimir instead—__coward, always willing to run away—__

Though love is what he's had to learn, the rite he's bound to observe without fault. A priest needs to become Love, and he __must have__ done so, indeed, since Her Benevolence has deemed him worthy of his service thus far.

Even being Love, he's incapable of giving this woman all that she so badly requires of him, and while it cannot be a curse, it unquestionably feels like one.

No, not a curse. Penance, for having been Casimir, and daring to be Erandur.

* * *

They enter the temple, and she should have been more careful, she's the one who's been here before, he can't be expected to know that, meandering through piles and piles of dismembered Draugr, they'd find themselves right in front of the Inner Sanctum before they can even get their bearings properly.

It's been affecting her more and more, this place, the further they've gone. She's stumbled a few times, having to lean on the nearest wall before continuing. She's dismissed all his worries, evidently, insisting that they press on:

"I don't think he wishes to kill us. Trust me, I've faced a healthy number of murderous lunatics before, in ruins just like this one, and it does not feel like that at all. Can't you sense it?"

Gods damn her, and him, in equal measure!

He's been covering the rear, as he often does, ready to throw a Fireball at the first sign of movement, and can't help but be struck by his own stupidity when a glittering barrier snaps shut behind Clelia the moment she sets foot inside.

He's merely two short steps behind her.

The blood in his veins is ice.

__I've failed her. Now is when I lose her.__

The thing is not altogether opaque, and he sees her looking at him for a heartbeat, two, then she turns and walks away.

He throws everything he has at the barrier, of course. Rummages through the scrolls he's brought with him, spells he's never attempted before, never even heard of, keenly aware of the futility of it all.

There is water dribbling from the ceiling, somewhere.

He gets to the end of his most fervent invocation to Lady Mara for the third time, and starts over.

In a last, desperate attempt, he tries to mentally reach through, get a grasp on what's happening.

Focusing all his remaining Magicka, he closes his eyes.

And finds he can barely stand upright.

Delirious joy, laced with the kind of panic that grips one's throat like iron, renders one unable to breathe; a yearning so savage—more gaping void than human emotion.

Then—a shout, high-pitched, feminine—followed by pain; immeasurable pain.

Clea. Clea.

What a sorry sight he must be, looking backwards and forwards between the spectral wall and the way to the exit.

__Get Illia and Ancano__, is his first thought.

__She might need me, she will be hurt, I can't leave her__, his second.

He hesitates, then begins walking back, slowly (as if he'd be able to hear what was going on if he got far enough away in this maze) and barely reaches the next flight of stairs before he hears footsteps.

One could say the Dragonborn is unharmed. She's come out of the Sanctum exactly the same as she's entered. One could very well say that, if her expression didn't seem carved from marble.

He runs back to her, searches for any sign of injury, any tear in her armour. There's nothing.

"I was going to get help," he rambles. "You were screaming, what did he do? What happened?"

She peers straight through him (doesn't even seem to register that she does) and her reply comes as if from far, far away:

"I wasn't screaming. Or, I was. I'm not sure. I laughed at him."

"La—" he stutters, and he's never known true terror before. "You spoke to him?"

"I did. He will not be a problem any longer."

She breathes deeply through her mouth.

"I've just done something appalling," she says, eventually. "Lilly—I need Lilly. Come on."

"You're worrying me," he insists, running after her. "What is it?"

She stops and faces him, and her eyes are red and green. They almost swallow her face entirely, they are so startling when the light from the torches falls on them like that.

"Don't, Erandur, please. I will tell you anything, I have told you everything in the past, but not this. This I cannot share with you. I'll be all right, I swear. I've sorted it out."

She takes the lead again, and they head out at a nearly frantic pace, not caring about remaining unseen, and he thanks the Divines that the village is close enough they reach it in a few hours.

Clea refuses to even acknowledge Ancano's pestering, taking off into the woods instead and gesturing for her sister to follow.

They are two halves of a whole, Clea and Lilly. Never one without the other. That is why, when the Altmer foolishly grips his wife's arm ("No, darling! It's getting dark...werebears...last night...let us go inside,") she spins violently towards him, her gaze steel.

"I know. Let. Go," and she only needs to raise one delicate eyebrow before he releases her as if he's been burned.

He stares after her in horror, fingers clenching and unclenching of their own volition.

It is only later, when they've all settled in for the night, that Erandur chances upon the sight of them standing in the middle of their room through a crack in the door.

Ancano holds Illia so close, it seems he wishes to mould them together, one hand tangled in her luxurious dark hair, nose pressed to her temple, eyes closed, frenzied whispers pouring from his lips like prayers.

* * *

Too much, he reflects, taking a seat on the porch. He needs to leave for home soon, he's become too weary to wait.

Not sane, not proper. At least not to him. These people he's had the misfortune (yes, misfortune) of coming across are utterly excessive in their feelings, and it...it disarms him. Mara forgive him, but here are sisters who share not an ounce of blood, and spouses who've never set foot in a Temple to be wed, and the First of the men born with the souls of beasts tears himself apart with longing for the Last of his kind across millennia, and he cannot bear it anymore.

He's supposed to _aid_ them—he hears his teeth chattering—that's what he's here for, but he can't even offer himself to the one who'd have all of him because she's (fastidiously, just like everything else she does) carved his image into her heart.

They all love too much, and he, who should be Love, loves __not enough—__or not the way he __ought to—__he feels he's turning into stone, and the ever-present question—why, why, why?

It's not his Lady—his Lady is Tenderness itself upon the world.

It's the unrelenting cold of these lands, that's found a place inside of him, and will not go away.

It must be.


End file.
